


Seven for a Secret

by countessofbiscuit



Series: Let Me Count The Ways [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Appropriate Clone Shenanigans, Clonecest, Commander Fox Week, Coruscant (Star Wars), Coruscant Guard, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fox's Bike, Galactic Republic, Galactic Senate, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Meet-Cute, Menstruation, Pre-Relationship, Prejudice, Sexual Content, Tattoos, Tumblr Prompt, Worldbuilding, foxiyo week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 09:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24967117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessofbiscuit/pseuds/countessofbiscuit
Summary: A Week in the Life of the Famous (or Infamous) Commander Fox, &c. as Told in an Expanding Series of Drabbles, Prompts, and Ficlets.
Relationships: Riyo Chuchi/CC-1010 | Fox
Series: Let Me Count The Ways [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1866736
Comments: 20
Kudos: 190





	1. Commander Fox Week 2020

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of the (now chronological) drabbles from #CommanderFoxWeek on tumblr.  
> When both prompts were used, I allowed myself 200 words for a double-drabble :p

**Touch-Starved/Hobbies**

Commander Salima of the Coruscant Home Fleet had clone skin. And if you stood to her right, a regulation haircut, too. Fox found her more attractive than any birther he’d met in two weeks off Kamino, and he hated the implication. 

_Absence of choice,_ he’d told himself. Find Fox a guardsman who hadn’t rubbed up against a brother in an interesting way, and Fox would have him pegged for a liar and unfit for promotion. They’d abide by birther laws upon deployment. Fox kept his command hands to himself, all the same. 

The asscrack of dawn usually saw Fox and Salima turning on the ship's gym lights together. She enjoyed pumping iron, too. Now she had Fox in her office, where he’d come in foolish hope, and she was laying into him with all the strength of conviction and weight of moral superiority. 

“Let me be clear,” Salima continued. “I have nothing against clones. I’ve kept your officers in the officers wing, for all the bitching. But what flew in the Kamino showers _won’t_ fly on Coruscant. You best get your _brothers_ in line, Commander — for your sake and theirs.” 

“Yes, sir,” clipped Fox, sinking further into the durasteel floor.

**Magic/Phantom Pain**

They’d been _encouraged_ not to use the public lifts. No need to crowd senators and alarm civilians with their armored presence. Read: clones belonged in the droid shafts. 

But it was late, the Dome had emptied, and Fox was dead in his boots. A straight ride down this one would park him at the speeder lot. 

Fox pressed the button. He didn’t even have to wait. The doors opened as if by command — 

To a Senate Guard captain. 

Tufted and territorial, he squared himself at the sight of Fox like a blue-breasted ibbot, asserting his right — and that of the other occupant, a dainty pantoran lady — to ride in this plasteel tube unbothered by any clone.

 _Great._ Fox cursed under his helmet and dithered. He’d catch the next one.

A small hand halted the doors. The lady. The pretty pantoran with brilliant canary eyes — the _senator_ with a senatorial datapad, was inviting him in.

“Please, Commander.” 

She knew who he was. Well, if not _him_ — Fox — then at least his rank. 

Fox floated into the lift, his entire body tingling, as if he’d been released from it and was experiencing but the phantom pain of life. 

Then she smiled at him, and his heart escaped too. 

**Solitude/Cuddles**

Fox hated autonav lanes, but with a senator glued to his back he was content to be the model of speeder safety. 

Angling from the traffic current, he brought his bike to an unlit apex of a skycutter’s wing. He placed a boot on the durasteel sheeting. Nothing. Anti-vagrancy alarms were still down, just like the accountant had moaned. Apparently, a weequay was squatting outside her window.

“Are we there?” Chuchi asked.

Fox dismounted, careful not to yank the belt that fastened them together.

“Not yet, but I remembered something.” Not wholly true — he was stalling for Piers to clear the penthouse, motivated by the promise of a month without staff duty. 

Riyo gripped his hand, shimmied from the bike, and cleaved herself to his front. Fox popped his lid, but dared not move. 

“This is the Accounts Presidium’s building,” he said. “Roof sensors have been down for weeks.” They were alone here, shrouded and lofty in the blinking night. “I can’t get you to the top of the Dome, but technically, you’re standing on Senate property.” 

Riyo laughed, squeezing his arms. “This I will accept. Thank you. It’s dizzying.”

Fox buried his nose in her hair. “It is.” _You are._

**High-Speed Chase/Animal Transformation**

The pursuit order came from up top. The motivation came from somewhere deep, where fear churned bile. 

“Mount up, mount up! We’ve got primacy. Talon — ATC frequency, _now!_ ” Fox barked. Bane had just overplayed his hand: Fox had felt it in the permacrete beneath his boots, where his heart had fallen. 

Senator Chuchi had been inside and was still unaccounted for. 

When Thire crackled over comms to confirm a detonation in the East Wing, only the Chancellor himself could've stopped Fox sprinting inside to claw at the rubble. At least the old man wasted no time dropping the leash, siccing Fox and his men in the other direction. 

Larties flew faster and punched harder, but Talon would have to jank the cumbrous ship around traffic. Fox was already sick. He needed to bite wind. And he hated hunting blind.

Casper had the con and Talon had the trajectory. Fox could scramble. 

The gunship chugged upwards, and Fox swooped his bike from the rear, kama and adrenaline surging on the sudden draft of zero to 300 klicks. _Speed demon,_ she’d teased him. Riyo. _His_ Riyo. 

Fox floored it, her name like a siren in his head.

He would chase Bane to hell.

**Scars**

Days after the crisis, Riyo sat on him, kneading Fox’s naked back like he’d just had the spinal realignment, not her. “This is new?” A featherlight finger circled a spot on his shoulder. 

Fox sighed into the cushions, hating to remember how only a lightsaber and traumatic fall had saved her from certain death. “Slugthrower,” he mumbled. “Pursuing Bane.” 

She flattened herself against him. “You never said.” 

“I’d take ten more to catch the shitstain. He almost … you almost —” His voice cracked. 

_“Shhh.”_ Riyo kissed his scar. Fox felt little. She kissed his ear. He felt everything at once. 

**Tattoos**

He deserved chef’s table at the Skysitter, complete with a wine locker emblazoned in gold: _Commander Fox, Pride of Coruscant._ But they couldn’t be seen dining there. So Riyo directed him to a traditional Pantoran market, many levels down.

Gulur sauce dripped on Fox’s chin when he bit the octopod skewer. If she didn’t act fast, his silk shemagh would become a glorified bib. 

Riyo collected the yellow dollop on her finger. Fox looked contrite, to be discovered with poor street-food manners. 

An idea overtook her. She daubed his cheek, grinning at the curved lines. “There. Now you’re a Chuchi.”

**Mind Control/Dancing**

Riyo stood in a flurry of fabric, hoping she still had time to reach the platform. Even if Chi’s engagement party were cancelled, she didn’t want to get stuck here. 

The door opened suddenly, revealing a red-armored ghost. 

Fox started, as if surprised to find her there. It’d been so long, perhaps he was. He removed his helmet, eyes wide, and Riyo wondered if it was her gown — if he recognized it. He’d twirled her around in it many times. Helped her out of it, too. _Sweetheart, you look beautiful, but you don’t make this easy._

“Apologies for the intrusion, Minister Chuchi.” His voice was officious. “I must inform you the Annex is now in lockdown.”

Riyo’s dress deflated with her. 

“You’ve seen the news?” he added, almost excitedly. 

“Yes. But I don’t believe it. How —”

“The audio’s been verified. It’s true. The Jedi tried to supplant the Chancellor.” Fox smothered her objection before it was out of her mouth. “They’re traitors. All of them.” 

Riyo trembled. She’d never seen him so deranged, like he was drunkenly trying to walk a narrow bridge between his eyes. 

“Stay here,” he ordered. “Bluejobs are securing the Temple, but it’ll be a long night.”


	2. Inked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks on the ground and two brief encounters later, Commander Fox knows Senator Chuchi is one of the nice ones. They share a seemingly superficial conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fill for a tumblr ask: "If you're taking potential prompts ... Fox and Riyo discuss tattoos in their respective cultures? Maybe while one gets a new design or a touch-up?"
> 
> Fox didn’t set the Republic military standards, but he sure as hell has to exemplify them. So it’s my headcanon that he doesn’t have any tats until Riyo’s affection works on him and/or the shittiness of the rest of his life strips his uptight grain. 
> 
> Consider this part of an ongoing appendix for the drabble collection, expanding on its ideas and suchlike.

The Senate concourse never slept, but most of the Dome’s regulars had long since made for their beds when Fox spotted Senator Riyo Chuchi waiting for the Annex hovertram. She stood alone on the platform, arms wrapped snugly around herself and engrossed in the floor's marbling. The hour was far from social, but Fox had both an apology to make and thanks to offer. And there was no time like the present. 

“Good evening, Senator Chuchi,” he greeted from a polite distance. Natborns, especially politicians haloed round by ego, took personal space seriously; brothers wouldn’t give both ears unless someone were right on top of them, and they still might not pay any heed. 

She straightened up, almost startled. But then — a courteous smile. “Commander Fox. Is everything alright?” 

Species and biographic profiles popped across his display. Fox blinked them away. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry for the disturbance. I wanted to apologize for not addressing you properly the other day, when you kindly held the lift for me.” For _him,_ the discomfited idiot, who couldn’t bring himself to enter the public turbolift he'd subversively called when faced with a mere Senate guard and a pretty woman. “And to thank you — for that, and for not giving me away to Senator Robb.”

They’d only just been _formally_ introduced yesterday by the Security Committee Chair — and Senator Chuchi had not let on that Fox had recently broken a Dome directive. Ignorance or indulgence, it mattered little. The effect on the fresh-off-the-transport commander was the same: he was very grateful. 

“Oh! Of course. You’re most welcome,” Senator Chuchi answered mechanically. Diplomatically. Stalling for understanding with a squint behind her smile.

“My database wasn’t synced to my input feeds yet,” Fox clarified. He’d been plagued by a deep need to reassure her that he took professionalism seriously. That he wasn’t chronically cavalier with protocol. “I didn’t know who you were, at first. But I’ve modded the software, so I —”

The tram approached. But it was Senator Chuchi’s blue hand on Fox's gauntlet that really stopped his thoughts short at the brainstem. She was very petite and looked about as warm as a silk petal in a breeze; but Fox’s skin prickled strangely under the plastoid. 

And she wasn’t cutting him off: she was holding him in place. When the tram doors parted, she did not let go. Senator Chuchi meant to keep him with her. Closely. As no one else was around — _especially_ as no one else was around, Fox had no argument against overstepping another rule if the Senator condoned it. 

The tram was reserved for senators whatever time of day; when Dome-bound platforms were busy, and certainly when a vote was called, no mere aide, intern, attaché or privileged tourist could expect passage. The tram droid would spot you at fifty paces, bleat and wail with flashing lights, shame you into the permacrete. Clones were just supposed to walk — or, in Fox’s case, bike. 

“Truly, you’re very considerate,” Senator Chuchi replied once they were onboard. “But I didn’t notice. I forget that my face doesn’t always give me away.”

It certainly gave her away as being very beautiful. Fox killed his display entirely. He even indulged the idea of removing his helmet, the better to appreciate her. But that would be quite forward: she hadn’t asked and the Guard had a lids-on policy handed down by the executive office. 

Fox cocked his helmet in silent encouragement. 

“Chuchi tattoos.” She touched two fingers to her cheek. “Obvious to Pantorans.” 

Fox cast his mind back to cultural modules. He remembered certain trivia and understood that this was a situation which called for small talk. “I've read about Pantoran ink. Is there really aurodium in yours?” he asked in a carefully modulated voice, though there was no one to overhear.

“Yes. It’s still common practice for — among certain families. Impossible for the layman to tell, however.”

Fox mentally calculated about twenty seconds until arrival. The time begged another question. “Did it hurt?” 

“The first time. But everything is unbearable to a child. They were filled out when I came of age and it wasn’t memorable.” 

“Who did yours?” Fox found his questions coming as naturally as her answers. This wasn't so bad. Not at all.

“Someone my Grandmama knew. They decide these things. And they keep the rakes.” 

“Rakes?”

“The tattooing tool. Usually the bone — well, it’s … it’s customary to keep a radial bone of one’s mother to be fashioned into rakes, and then into button hooks or hair pins once they’re worn down.”

Wasn’t the oddest natborn tradition he’d ever heard. And just the other day Stone reported that a detachment of MPs had cut their teeth over Ohma-D’un breaking up a brawl about some cursed finger of Jango’s. A few units claimed to possess one. Everyone deferred to Geonosis vets, and really, what was the harm? Well, until they came to blows over it. “Huh.” 

“Do you have any?” she asked.

“Ma’am?”

“Tattoos?”

Thankfully, the hovertram was slowing into the station. It allowed Fox a transitory moment to consider why she’d care and to gather his conflicted thoughts on the subject as they disembarked.

Strictly speaking, tattoos were against regs, at least for clones. The RCMJ prohibited any bodily ornamentation that might bring discredit upon the galaxy’s preeminent military, but culturally significant tattoos and jewellery were permissible for natborns — the unspoken being that clones didn’t have a culture to claim. 

“No, I don’t have any. It’s, uhh … not allowed in the Guard.” Not that Fox hadn’t seen some. Even before deployment — back before it was his problem to punish — the occasional itch to differentiate, to _distinguish,_ had defied the longnecks’ surveillance, at least until the next quality control inspection. Some experiments with filched hypos and med-markers had lasted longer than others. Stars and heavens help the bastards who’d inked themselves and paid for it in sweat and blood and punishment tours, only for the artistry to fade. Or for the shine to quickly wear off their youthful love of Coruscanti opera or the Galactic Senate. Or for the limb get plain blown off. 

“Oh. On what grounds?” she asked. 

In the main, Fox _liked_ the RMCJ: it accorded a comforting set of guardrails, standards, and norms in a new and overwhelming operating environment. But he sensed a rebuke of the hard facts of life forming in the good Senator’s mind. 

No point clouding the issue for her sensibilities; the regs only referenced what the Military Creation Act made plain in Section 3: all of clonedom, from marshal commanders to the lowest and last trooper on the production line, belonged to her federal government. Down to the dermis. 

“Defacement of Republic property,” Fox offered as he followed her onto the Annex slideramp, since she hadn’t dismissed him yet.

Senator Chuchi did indeed frown up at him. “Does it really say that?” 

“Yes. In the uniform code.” In a number of articles, actually — like the ones about mistreatment of service property and punishments for desertion. “There’s a certain leniency out in the field, I gather,” Fox added lightly, though privately he marvelled how any officer could sufficiently shake that feeling of a cold finger hovering behind their ear and get inked; would he even recognize himself without observational stress? “But it’d be nice to have it codified — or, err, uncodified.” 

While he’d made it widely and _painfully_ understood that facial tattoos would be burned off before they could be flagged as culturally insensitive, Fox wasn’t wholly a rule-bound, stuffed suit of armor. He was slightly more practical than purist. The Guard’s plates needed to be uniform and finer than dinnerware, sure; but so long as you were fit to fight, what happened under your blacks was between you, your sergeant, and your capacity to endure barracking. 

Fox chose not to see a lot of things, and liked to figure what natborns couldn’t see couldn’t hurt them. 

Problem was, natborns liked to see fucking _everything,_ especially politicians curious about how fully organic their new army was. _Inspect,_ his shebs — _bother, interrupt,_ and _gawp at,_ more like. Guard Central off the Executive Thoroughfare was hardly incognito and not necessarily off-limits if you could nab some natborn logistics lieutenant with the most basic clearance. 

It was only a matter of time before a guardsman got his favorite dancing girl slapped across his back in glorious color, and some peeping bureaucrat kicked up a stink about a gross lack of standards in the locker room. Fox could do nothing about General Tiaan or the other top brass, but at least they trumpeted a few hours before their arrival to ensure the proper pomp and ceremony — and they didn’t care about the showers. 

Senator Chuchi had gone quiet as they reached the main Annex lobby. Fox’s neck dampened to think he’d lowered her spirits or given her cause to regret his company. He also believed guilt helped no one. She didn’t seem pompous or presumptuous, just unfailingly polite. Maybe he had a chance to make a real ally. “If I may request a favor, ma’am,” he ventured, steepling his hands at his navel like he’d seen the Chancellor do when putting forth a sensitive proposition. “For my own ... err, _family._ ” 

This time, Senator Chuchi arrested Fox with _both_ hands on his gauntlets. He couldn’t have moved if Corrie’s axis pitched. “Certainly,” she said. “I like to think I’m a public servant. And not only for Pantorans.”

Fox had been primed to make a short speech about clone personhood and the need for senatorial sympathy. He was damn tired, though. And moonstruck. Enough to make him chuckle and ask instead, “If you could maybe … I don’t know, discreetly put it round that it’s gauche for politicians to drop into the barracks unexpected? The men don’t get a lot of privacy and the shower block’s the closest thing to a spiritual retreat they’ve got.” 

Senator Chuchi’s bright eyes widened, his display registering a sharp increase in her pulse and temperature. “Of course. You have my word," she said. "I’ll see if can carefully address this matter of … discretion. And I’m sorry you had to ask.” Her knuckles paled as she squeezed his armor; Fox felt nothing but her sincerity. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” Fox was so flustered, he nearly invited her to drop by his block anytime, which would have been the height, depth, and breadth of stupidity. Instead, he said something else that was only marginally short on sense: “It’s very late. May I escort you home?”

“That’s kind of you, Commander. But my driver will be here now.” Her _driver_ — of course: Senator Chuchi was as rich as Koros, she possessed a smile literally finer than gold, and she wasn’t touching him anymore. 

Fox bowed his head low — a head that had almost outgrown his helmet in a moment of unprofessional conceit. 

He had to walk back down the Thoroughfare to fetch his bike. And as he did, he wondered what might bring him to patronize that closet in the barracks he wasn’t supposed to know about. What he’d ask for, if he ever forgot his station enough to ask. What could ever stir his heart so much, that he’d wish to mark the spot.

Hypos and hypotheticals: Fox, senior commander and paragon of the Guard, didn’t have time or liberty for either. He tried to forget all about it.


	3. Foxiyo Week 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Love of Riyo Chuchi and Commander Fox, from Beginning to End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A series of 300-word ficlets for Foxiyo Week 2020, now in chronological order.

**Awkward**

Starsblood, weren’t turbolifts were supposed to be fast? It was built into the name. This one seemed to take an age to get moving, despite the gravity well of a clone commander who’d just stepped inside.

His stiffness made it clear he hadn’t expected the invitation. And his voice scratched from his helmet, like he knew the lowest register to hit a whisper. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Riyo’s welcoming smile crumbled under the feeling that she might have embarrassed him, somehow. He must more than outrank the Senate Guard captain standing behind her. 

She regretted only skimming through the data pack distributed at the briefing about the clones who’d be augmenting security. Numbers of numbered men were being slowly presented to the senators, but they hadn’t reached her office. Maybe she should introduce herself? But she’d never done that with the Guards and it seemed silly to start now.

The lift stopped at the captain’s floor. To allow him to squeeze out, Riyo moved nearer the commander, almost flush with his armor. But the captain didn’t exit; he didn’t so much as budge when Riyo glanced at him. Had he meant to follow her all the way down? 

Or was he looming with intent, to make some kind of point? 

In the way of acute awkwardness, Riyo’s mind spun on the tooke wheel of possibilities and explanations, heat rising in her cheeks. Captain Loture _had_ been rather dismissive of the idea of another unit — maybe this was something a little more insidious than jurisdictional jealousy.

Finally, the lift found the bottom and its doors parted at their pleasure. The commander gestured for her to please go ahead. And Riyo scurried out, supremely aware of him following close on her heels, bending her thoughts his way long after he’d walked off.

**Safety**

She’d worn boots and secured her hair, like he’d asked, but Riyo regretted her tulippá outfit. It had seemed a poetic idea, given Fox had ruinously fingered the petal of one before shyly enquiring if she _always_ worked evenings, his lips ruddied and swollen from their first kiss. They’d agreed that mastering the bike would be requisite for any twilit trysts; and apparently there was no better place for tuition than The Works, where Riyo was surprised to find many things still working. It smelled noxious and this fabric didn’t tolerate dry-cleaning. 

“If you wouldn’t mind wearing this, ma’am,” said Fox, holding out some fluorescent rigging.

“What is it?” She noticed the six-stich-per-standard-inch handiwork as she clipped and cinched it about her waist. 

“Err, modified PT belts.” 

Riyo looked at him, puzzled. 

“A safety thing,” he continued.

“Inside the gym?”

“For unit runs. Like up and down the Thoroughfare.”

“... but there are only Senate Guards on skiffs?” And those were speed-regulated — though senators still weren’t supposed to hitch rides: it was a liability that might bleed the Guards’ rich blue pale.

“I know. It’s daft.” The way Fox triple-checked the integrity of their hi-vis coupling, however, insisted that _this_ wasn’t. 

He’d promised there would be no swooping, not yet, but his earnest solicitude for her welfare had something of the same effect in Riyo’s chest. Apologizing for wearing his helmet because his proprioception was better; alerting her that she might get itchy in ... well, that the engine did funny things to circulation; insisting that she only had to raise a finger and he’d stop.

Fox mounted his bike with a charisma that shouldn’t be right, not in someone that should’ve been on government payroll. “Are you ready?” he asked, offering his strong hand that Riyo didn’t hesitate to take.

**Secret**

Crepuscular light retreated along the horizon, passing the torch to Coruscant’s twinkling skyline in a striking, eternal relay. But as Fox stood at the penthouse window, one arm around a small senator, strumming her ribs with his thumb in affectionate nervousness, he was convinced the only thing more beautiful than Riyo Chuchi was Riyo Chuchi’s faint reflection in the glass.

He was trying to ignore her teasing smile — and failing. Something that happened with strange regularity around her.

“No, no — tell me! When did you first want to kiss me?” she urged again, buoyed by the bubbles of her lukewarm drink, something he’d poured with one hand over the barely vintage label.

Fox hesitated — but the event wasn’t _all_ unhappy. “During the escape, downbelow. When I woke you up and you had bedhead and sleepy eyes.”

“Of course, when I was barely clean and stress-sweaty. That must’ve taken the restraint of a Jedi.”

The comparison wasn’t flattering, but that wasn’t her fault. “Most of them,” he snorted — then, meaning no disrespect to her friend Senator Amidala, “But maybe I shouldn’t — ”

“No, I think you _should_ ,” Riyo said with an astute grin, leaning into him.

This felt very incorrect. Gossiping. Fox raised his glass, muttered “Skywalker,” and drank down his discomfort.

“Thank gods! I’m glad you said something first,” she laughed, and Fox was relieved to be joined in this secret hypocrisy. “Would you believe, I’ve seen him slap her bum in the Dome.”

For a senator reputed to be unflappable, Amidala’s vitals were often quite agitated. “I can believe it,” said Fox.

“You’re much more disciplined.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Perhaps _too_ much.”

Fox welcomed this reproach. It invited him to lower his hand and rub Riyo’s own ass, until the booze emboldened and the couch beckoned. 

**(Don't Get) Cocky**

Chuchi started when she opened the door; Reaper completed her shock by manhandling her back into the cabin and removing his helmet. “Hello, Senator. We’re going to have a chat.”

She scrutinized his Corrie armor for anything she’d missed. “Who’re you?” 

“Grunt,” he repeated. 

“Am I in some kind of trouble?” 

No wonder Fox fancied her: she was modest for a senator. “You tell me.” 

“If you’re intelligence, I’d appreciate you simply asking what you want to know.” And a smart cookie, too.

“You know what I want.” Reaper sat on the cot and extended his hand. To her credit, Chuchi made no insulting assumptions and stood impassive. Then, comprehending her piece in this puzzle, she unclipped the pendants from her hairpiece. “Thank you. These pick up _all_ sorts of interesting things.” He laid out tools from his belt and gestured for her to join him.

“Now?”

“Why not? It’s a long jump.” She frowned once more for propriety, but sat down. “Niemies don’t give up their own easily. Let’s just say I’m curious about your success with Canay.” 

“I followed the stench of extortion. But I’ve nothing more incriminating than what you must already possess. Senator Amidala had the pure sabacc and _still_ lost to the idiots arrayed in the Senate.”

“Ah, but that was a _Council_ investigation. This was … much more rogue.” 

“There was a danger of the daughters being moved.” 

“It wasn’t a criticism, Senator.” Reaper popped open the enamel and went for the innards. “What diplomatic dance you do now doesn’t concern us.”

“Appropriate disclosures will be made,” she sniffed.

“A squad was sent to escort you home, not assault the place. That’s good news, don’t you think? Be a shame to lose those nice Choruk boys.” Reaper smiled, pointedly. “They _really_ like you.” 

**Routine**

The garment bags rotated before Riyo, shielding silks as stiff and spenny as the paper invitations that awaited their debut or reprise. 

“Oh, Riyasha!” cried her mother. “Is that my aria gown from _Truduo and Isáun_?” Her hologram shook delightedly when Riyo reversed the carousel, selected the dress in question, and affirmed that it was so. “I honestly thought I’d misplaced it!” 

The burgundy velvet, ruched in the most romantic manner, had silenced Peito’s Opera House before Sófi Chuchi had even sung her first note. “You know it’s one of my favorites,” explained her daughter — as if it was needed, when the open-closet understanding between them was as familiar as their dressing-room chats.

“How does it fit?” 

The bosom had been altered, tucked in at the side seams to answer Riyo’s minimal endowment; but it was a supremely forgiving style. “Perfectly. I wore it last month and — ” Riyo stopped, remembering how easily Fox had shucked it from her shoulders, dumping it in a pool of red, before he’d kissed his way southwards, ignoring every objection about her cycle to redden his chin and eat her at her ripest — “and it was much admired.” 

“ _Oh?_ Did a certain Kett catch a glimpse?” 

Riyo flushed. “Yes.”

“When, when, _when_ will you let us meet him?” her mother pleaded, almost sinking out of frame. All she knew of Riyo’s beau was that he worked in highly classified security; and to someone who believed everything merited a versified soliloquy, her daughter’s closeness was terrible. 

“Eventually. We’ll probably just ... show up one day and surprise you and Tata.” 

“What does he like? So I know what Kar-Seven should keep stocked.” 

Riyo grinned at the finger Fox had sucked free of sauce and slick, returning it to the button. “Haselnutta. Supremely sweet things.” 

**Heartbreak**

The botanical journal persisted in misspelling her father’s name. Riyo hovered a finger over the editor’s comm-code, wondering if a correction from the planet’s erstwhile senator might feel rather heavy-handed —

That was when she saw it: the corner of the garden wall. It was sliding open, for the first time in many months.

Riyo stared, agape. Only one other person in the galaxy could command the glass to move like that.

And some sore part of her wanted to throw a hand out, Jedi-like, and slide it right on back.

 _Not now,_ she thought. Not when she’d almost recovered from his long absence. From the silence that met her on their comm after he’d gone to the clinic and not come back. Not when she’d almost forgotten the stranger with stim-addled eyes who’d demanded that she fucking stay in that fucking office until he lifted the emergency protocols, leaving her to watch the dreadful light show out her window: countless gunships menacing the Federal District and, far beyond, the Jedi Temple aflame.

The sight of the bike’s vanes swelled those apprehensions, tussling with weary hope. She'd heard the Guard had been involved in an incident at the Temple last night — something about the last stand of that poor Jedi librarian. Maybe he was so shattered, he’d finally decided to slink up here, expecting solace for his unhappy part in confronting an old woman.

Riyo’s hands found her hair, neatening it reflexively. 

But Fox’s helmet was all wrong; in fact, everything about the rider was slightly to the left of right. It was just a guardsman, no kama, holding something red and strangely familiar —

Fox’s bike halted.

The guardsman removed the standard bucket.

And the face of all his brothers, drawn and distraught, found hers in the pane.

**Shatter**

“He — there was a fall — ” Thire tried to explain, finding the effort futile and beyond his abilities. He’d seen the SIR; maybe it’d be easier to parrot words already written.

_Impact trauma._

_Severed cervical spine._

_Rapid deceleration._

_Force fuckery._

Call it what he wanted, it didn't matter. Detail wouldn’t help the pitiful creature he was trying to gather into his arms like some kind of gelatinous casualty. She knew. She knew exactly what his coming here meant.

A bizarre, spindly housekeeping droid hovered about them, moaning about the pallor of her mistress, thrusting an ammoniac vial at him.

“Get gone, fucking droid!” Thire shouted, squeezing Senator — _Minister_ Chuchi face first into his chest as he carried her into the salon and clumsily cleared a sofa of its collection of cushions. “Or get some wine, if you insist on being needed.” Fuck, was that best, in the circumstances? Really should’ve packed some weapons-grade catatonic downers. But his mind had been back at the base of that godsdamned Temple, the scene of so much shattered plastoid and one irreplaceable and irrevocably broken brother.

Riyo was sobbing herself into a sickly grey color. The droid might’ve been onto something. Zellies could die of broken hearts, what about Pantorans?

Hells, what about human men?

Thire clattered onto the floor beside Riyo’s awful wet face, feeling klicks out of his depth, seeing his own silent hurt splattered over someone else. Suffocating on it before he’d even hit bottom. Just like Fox.

Removing a glove to run his fingers through that satin hair, he caressed her like Fox might’ve done, with that once boundless love that had made him float into the control room, twirling his pistols with a little more joie de vivre than came standard.

And Thire gently told her lies.


	4. Cherry Picked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the latest GAR internal memo: _Find someone who looks at you like Lady RaRa looks at a Coruscant Guardsman._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brushing real fucking close to RPF here, but I couldn't _not_ adapt [ "The Marine & the Lady of Gaga"](https://taskandpurpose.com/entertainment/marine-lady-gaga-photo-inauguration-day/) for Valentine's Day. A little crack on the palate after those brutal Foxiyo Week ficlets. 
> 
> For those rah boys in red ♥

“Why is that on?” Fox asked upon coming in off the balcony. The new penthouse viewscreen was for sports, soaps, and stakes; the holonews offered none of that, and was garish and obnoxious besides. Who wanted to watch debacles and disasters in half time with inane commentary? Fox had his own HUD for that. 

Jammy tried to stand up reflexively. Fox’s heavy hand on his shoulder told the captain he’d do better to stay casual and answer on his shebs. “Piers’s interview, sir — it’s supposed to air during the nine o’chron news.” 

“Ah.” 

Lieutenant Piers had been in the right place at the right time with the right face during the rehearsals for Republic Day, and had gotten tapped to escort a galactic pop star down some stairs. Fox hadn’t seen it live, having been stood below the Chancellor’s dais to take the salute. But he’d seen reams of cam footage since. And holos. _So_ many heart-eyed holos. 

The Senate Public Affairs office was always looking for quick wins for the army, but they had a PR endurance ruck on their hands with the Guard: door-kickers, boot-lickers, box-tickers, and generally unpopular. Piers had told Fox that Rugeyan happened to be standing nearby at the deciding moment, and that it’d been his idea to have a Corrie grunt to do the honors on this, the first wartime Republic Day. 

But it was Lady RaRa who had the real flashbang of brilliance by asking Piers to remove his helmet for the cams and kissing a clone on both cheeks, before stepping up to the mic to belt out the Republic anthem. 

At least, that was the general opinion of the Guard, especially the gaggle gathering ‘round the screen. 

Piers himself was absent that evening. His duties hadn’t ended when the spotlights cut out. After earning a reprieve from staff duty for a successful one-man rapid clear of the penthouse a couple weeks back, when his CO had been inbound with a very particular DV, he’d landed himself dignitary duty in the run up to the annual celebrations. Plum job or punishment, depending on your assignment of principals. 

Fox was pouring out the last of the liquor he and Senator Chuchi had recently shared, unbelievably eager to see her again, when the opening bars of the “All Stars Burn as One” tinkled from the speakers and a great roar of excitement billowed from the lounge. 

“Yesterday’s Republic Day celebrations at the Senate were distinctly martial in nature, as the Republic marked its 979th year and nine months of conflict with CIS forces,” began the HNE anchor. “One soldier, however, captured the attention and hearts of everyone when he gallantly escorted singer Lady RaRa before she sang the Republic anthem. One of our correspondents spoke with the clone trooper after the ceremony yesterday.” 

Fox ambled over from the bar to get a view of the screen. It cut to some busy scene in the Dome portico. And there was the guardsman of the hour, running a hand through that damn hair of his, a finger’s breadth taller than regulation, and wearing his service medal — the one Fox had declined in favor of the junior officer who’d actually _shot down_ that hijacked convict vessel and rescued the CSF officer with some quick-thinking and a jetpack. Fox had merely picked Piers and piloted the peppered pursuit gunship — a singular act for a marshal commander, but not exactly award-winning. Not outside Corrie’s atmo, certainly.

“Lieutenant Piers, tell us how you were chosen for the privilege of leading out Lady RaRa,” the reporter asked. 

Piers had no formal media training, but he was a consummate soldier. Fox wasn’t _too_ nervous. Besides, there was Rugeyan himself in the background, wonderfully breaking the fourth wall, staring alternately at the back of Piers’s head and at the reporter behind the cam as he listened in, finger in his ear, like the consummate dingbat he was. 

“Well, they’d almost finished rehearsing for the function, when it was flagged to the MC that Lady RaRa would be wearing this very beautiful, very large dress,” Piers began. “And obviously, there was a concern — there are a lot of steps outside the Dome and she might need some help. And the MC looked ‘round and I was standing there, no helmet at the time, and I guess —” smirking a little into the cam — “he just liked the look of me. And there was some back-and-forth, ‘cause I wasn’t really supposed to be dressed for the occasion, I was just security. But since I was definitely one of the, uhh, taller and larger individuals around and sturdily dressed myself, they asked if I wouldn’t mind and I said I’d be happy to.” 

Even if Rugeyan hadn’t fixed it, Piers had said there hadn’t been much competition for the honor: a bunch of interns, old civil servants, and some Blueys who weren’t impressive enough to be stationed in the visible parts of the ceremony. Still, as he’d been randomly shunted over from a command unit at decant and was one of Dodger’s gym groupies, he wore his armor _very_ well. 

“When did you first meet Lady RaRa?” 

“About fifteen minutes before the ceremony.” 

“You must have been nervous.” 

“A little.” 

“Were you familiar with her music? Any favorite songs?”

Piers’s reply was drowned out as the lounge audience enthusiastically offered up their own opinions. Maybe Lady RaRa was the key to really engaged briefings. 

“Tell us your first impression of her.”

Piers bit his lip, charmingly. “Pretty. Kind. And funny — said we had an equal chance of tripping over her dress. That cut the ice pretty quick.” 

“You said something to her in the doorway. What was that?”

“We’d been waiting up there a while and I felt her start to — well, she seemed a little nervous and it just seemed a natural thing to do, the right thing to do to reassure her, before the spotlights hit us.” 

Fox smiled. Aristos, politicians, and celebrities all put their panties on one leg at a time — and sweated into them just the same. Delightfully. Fox knew, because he’d recently sucked a senator’s face and spread her skirt on the couch now crammed with soggy guardsmen. 

“What did you tell her?” the reporter pressed.

“I said, ‘Hey, ma’am, you’re a great performer, really brilliant. You’ll do a cracking job. You always do.”

Various sounds of approval, some more crude than others, echoed this, and Piers was roundly urged to _get in._ The din only magnified when a holopic of The Kiss flashed up next to Piers’s head. Fox didn’t catch the next few seconds, as sergeants were finding it bloody difficult to silence other sergeants, but the lieutenant continued to smile and nod placidly at the volley of prodding questions which sought out his embarrassment. For the first guardsmen on HNE, he was doing pretty brilliantly himself. Speaking like he’d been there, done that, and bought the ashtray.

Eventually, the reporter could be heard again. “What did you think of her performance?” 

“It was phenomenal. And her dedication to the troops at the start was very heartfelt. I hadn’t — no one had expected her to do that.” 

“Is there anything else you’d like to share, lieutenant?”

“Yes. That I was really proud to represent the Republic Guard.” Fists punched the hushed air below Fox, but no one made a sound. Everyone wanted to hear this. “It was an honor and I hope I did my brothers proud with this one. Trillions of people have now seen Lady RaRa with a guardsman — with a clone.” 

The lounge erupted. Piers would never have to pour another drink for himself in his short life. Red and whitejobs alike would be lining them up for klicks. 

The anchor reappeared on screen. Fox was about to sew sky back to barracks when his compad vibrated: a haptic alert for time-sensitive messages. He popped his bucket on and pulled it up. A transfer request from Thorn. Apparently, Lady RaRa had been assigned DES for her trip home. And she’d enquired after Lieutenant Piers specifically. 

Fox actually laughed. He approved the request immediately, gratified at this convenient and curious opportunity to return Piers’s favor. Her yacht was fucking luxe and it was a mighty long jump to Cantonica …


End file.
